


Frost-Bright Nights

by ensorcel



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, F/F, Femslash, Older Woman/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 06:05:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17156636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ensorcel/pseuds/ensorcel
Summary: Nigel has a sharp eye. Sometimes too sharp. (Sometimes he wishes he had never met Miranda Priestly.)





	Frost-Bright Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All rights reserved to Twentieth Century Fox and Laura Weisberger. Any characters recognized do not belong to me.
> 
> Many thanks to zigostia for saving this story.

When Nigel first sees the girl, he doesn’t expect her to last. The mistake of a blazer—if you could even call it that—paired alongside the alright-but-could-be-better purple shirt, and a mess of brown pants, he is surprised that Miranda hired her at all. It is spring, and Nigel muses that with the coming of new leaves, there is a coming of new talents.

Though, being surprised with Miranda Priestly is nothing new. In fact, if Miranda Priestly doesn’t surprise you, Nigel would highly recommend going to a therapist, or finding a new job.

He walks in during the middle of the “interview”, breezing in with comments about before and after photos, and wonders if the next one is right in front of him. Not bad hair, pretty enough face—large features though—and one can always lose weight.

A professional in makeovers is the first line in his job description, and he decides that Andy doesn’t need as much work as he’s seen before.

So, when he picks up a pair of black, size eight Armani, low heeled slingbacks, he is not surprised, not in the least. Judging women has been his job for the past seventeen years, and forgive him if he wishes to look at one a little more presentable.

Andrea, “Andy”—why ever you would shorten an elegant name like Andrea down to that, Nigel has no idea—is much too nice for Runway, a bit naive, but Nigel can see that drive behind her, the ambition that has pulled people like Miranda Priestly out of her poverty stricken hole of a hometown, back in Detroit. But the one thing he notices the most, more than the ambition, the drive, is the way the girl regards Runway. Regards Miranda Priestly. There is a—forgive him for the cliché— _spark_ between the two. A connection of similar minds and wants.

With a journalism degree from Northwestern and an attitude higher than any horse that he has ever seen before, a small part of Nigel wants her to make it, to prove Miranda Priestly wrong.

That small part is right.

* * *

 The attitude Andrea Sachs wears is a little higher than Nigel had first thought, and when she comes sobbing to him in his office—how should Donatella work the sash, up, or down?—he is not surprised, not in the least. In fact, he was wondering how much longer it would take for her to break, though at these times, Andrea Sachs was the furthest thing from his mind. The comings of summer are right along the horizons, and he is almost surprised she has lasted this long.

A strict talking-to comes out of his mouth, and though he’s aware that perhaps, maybe, this could’ve been broken to the girl a bit kinder, a bit kinder is something Nigel has never been good at. When he finishes, and she looks at him with those large doe eyes, he sighs and sets his work aside, thinking that Miranda better thank him for this.

The awe in Andrea’s eyes are as prominent as the clothes on the racks, and when she tells him her dress size—he had already guessed, and was glad he was right—he doubts he is able to find anything that might fit her. In a world where the ideal body was a woman as thin as the starving, Nigel has nearly forgotten what an “average” size is supposed to be. Perhaps Andrea is a teaching for him too.

His eyes skim quickly over the designs of the season, the ones of past, and the classics of the industry. History is written between these hooks, hangers, and drapes. The saddest thing is that Andrea fails to notice. Fails to notice the dedication, work, ambition poured from every bone of designers, editors, writers from every corner of the world. He throws brand after brand at the girl, knowing that she will need these skills if she’s to stay with Miranda for more than another week. He’s sure that Emily has already prepped her for most—keyword most—of what the Priestly storm should be, but when it comes to Miranda Priestly, there is no such thing as too prepared.

When word comes around of Andy Sachs being the next best dressed in the office, Nigel hides a smile behind his folder and continues with his day. (Miranda owes him big time.)

* * *

Andy stops by and tells him, with a bright smile etched on his face, “I’ve got the Book,” her voice emitting pride and satisfaction. Nigel gives her a sliver of a grin, and looks up at her.

“Guess she’s starting to trust you,” he replies, tone cool, as he sorts through the layouts for the season’s opening.

The outfit she’s wearing is one he’s picked out for her, classic Prada white blouse, paired with bold tweed pants, and five-inch Jimmy Choos. Glints of gold sparkle at her ears, wrist, and finger. Fourth finger, left hand, Nigel slyly notices. His lips stretch out into a smile, putting the papers down.

“Congratulations,” he says, looking pointedly at her hand. She beams, oblivious to his point.

“God, thanks! I’d never thought that Miranda would—you know, with how she is—”

Nigel stops her.

“No, no, not Miranda. Your fiance,” he croons, picking up her hand and examining the ring. “Lovely,” he comments, “Tiffany, diamond.”

Andrea blushes again, a simple pink coated her cheeks. It looks rather nice, Nigel admits, and wonders if he can find the same hex code for the layout.

“Oh yes,” she begins, and Nigel can sense her starting to ramble, but this time, he lets her. “He proposed at the restaurant we first went to when we came to here—you know, New York, since we’d moved here together after university—high school sweethearts, that kinda thing—”

There seems to be an impeccable joy landing itself over the room, but Nigel can’t help but place something wrong with it.

* * *

 The first time he suspects of something, of it even crossing his mind, of a possibility of it, he is surprised.

It is, after all, Miranda Priestly. However, the other half of the equation, should not surprise him. Women like Miranda Priestly are supposed to surprise him. Meant to, born to, surprise him. But women like Andrea Sachs? Not as much. (But he is beginning to notice that Miranda Priestly and Andrea Sachs are more alike than he’d thought.) Perhaps it was prominence of Miranda’s heterosexuality that separated the two, the constant of a husband or beau or dare he say, boyfriend.

But the ambition is the same. Maybe that’s enough.

But the thought flits past his mind, and an image of Miranda Priestly and Andrea Sachs kissing blasts before him.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

Erase.

One is married. The other engaged. The former with two children. The latter wishing for some in the future. (Or so he assumes.)

Priestly and Sachs. The thought rolls around, with him palming it as though it was a magazine cover.

Perhaps not as surprising as he thinks.

* * *

 Once the thought is in his mind, it never seems to go away. Simply there, in the back of his head, a small, nagging voice sing-songingly teasing him each time Miranda walks by. (He does not ask, of course, because does he want to be murdered?)

The boss-secretary thing is not uncommon, and as he thinks more about it—which he really shouldn’t—if Miranda was a man, he would not be surprised at all. In fact, he would be surprised if it wasn’t going on.

The thought is pushed to the back, letting it sit on the back-burner for a while, constantly sizzling, heating, collecting. Whatever Miranda Priestly does in her spare time is none of his business, and whatever Andrea Sachs does in her spare time is also none of his business, but sometimes, he’d like to find it was. It really isn’t like he’s keeping out a stronger eye for this type of thing—it was, after all, none of his business. He watches the bright glint of gold on Andy’s fourth finger, left hand, and glances at Miranda’s, reminding him that infidelity is not the answer to this—what shall he call it?—dilemna.

His hands run over the pages upon pages of edits, thoughts scrambling to the possible-though-also-likely-impossible Miranda Priestly-Andrea Sachs relationship. Affair. The word rolls around in his head, the letters coming off elegantly. Well, if it was true, he doubted any part of it would be elegant.

It is almost fall, he notices, as he watches Andy run from one side of the building to the other, hands full of the upcoming of fashion week. (Really, he should be too.)

Holt, he reminds himself, shoving Andy and Miranda in the corner, where they should be. Holt. Right.

* * *

Miranda, he reminds himself, is not kind. Miranda Priestly is not nice, she is not generous, and she is certainly not loving. But as he watches as his boss gently lays a blanket over her assistant, he is forced to think otherwise. The two women he has found that matter the most to him have found some source of happiness, as strange or unusual it is, and for that, Nigel is willing to place some sort of doubt on Miranda Priestly. Don’t let her fuck it up, he hopes. Let Miranda keep this one thing in her life.

So when Andy comes to him with puppy dog eyes and her heart on her sleeve begging him to help her find a dress, Nigel caves, and hopes that for this once in her life, Miranda Priestly doesn’t fuck it up. Running his hands over the lush fabrics of designer gowns left and right, skimming the beading, checking the hemming, he selects a delicate, gorgeous, navy blue halter backless dress, imagining it on Andy’s body, and wondering if Andy is trying to seduce Miranda or if she already had.

He ignores the thought, and beckons her along to find a pair of shoes, knowing that Miranda will absolutely wear a pair of six inch heels.

Shoving the dress into Andy’s hands, he nearly runs down the halls, wondering if he should warn the girl.

_Ice Dragon Eats the Lamb._

He can already see the headlines.

So when he is done picking out the shoes, carefully arranges the hair into some type of updo, looks over the jewelry that he can’t take out yet but is sure Andy will get her hands on, the words slip out of his mouth.

“Be careful,” he says, his back to Andy. The girl nods, and swiftly turns on her way.

Too bad one can never be too careful with Miranda Priestly.

* * *

Miranda is beautiful the night of the benefit. (When is she not?)

Every eye clings to the black, off-shouldered custom Valentino dress, Miranda’s pale skin glowing juxtapositionally beneath it. Touches of bright diamond at the ears, but leaving the neck bare, Miranda dazzles stronger than any star. Classics, Nigel remembers her telling him, are the backbone of fashion.

She is certainly not wrong.

Nigel recognizes the cut of the neckline as one from a 1930 Dior design, and the skirt from a 1950 Chanel beauty. No, she certainly is not wrong.

There is always a bit of love with Miranda Priestly, be it admiration, envy, or joy. Tonight, it surrounds the room, as she descends down the stairs, a pale hand trailing down the railing. Emily stands shell-shocked beside Andy, a worship like glow on her face. Nigel scoffs, until he sees Andy.

If Nigel hadn’t had nearly thirty years behind him of a sharp eye (and Miranda Priestly, he grudgingly admits), he would’ve mistaken Andy for another Emily. Just another girl absolutely, utterly, infatuated with La Priestly. But Nigel isn’t blind, and perhaps it is him, that understands the failings of the heart better than most.

It is different with Andy. Nigel watches as the young girl—terribly, terribly young—gasp a little, sucking in her stomach, and eyes completely entranced with Miranda Priestly. In a crowd of hundreds, no one would notice. She was just Miranda Priestly’s assistant, after all. An assistant, nothing more.

But as Andy’s mouth hangs slightly open, a small smile beginning to form, as Miranda’s dress sweeps down the stairs, each foot planting a careful step, Nigel knows. Maybe not the part of if it’s an affair or just merely an infatuation, and maybe not the part of if it’s a relationship, but Nigel knows enough.

If Miranda knows, of Andy’s little crush, she certainly doesn’t show it on her face, a sleek slight tilt of the lips with bright eyes. She smoothly makes her way through the crowd, as though gliding on the shiny, marble floors, greeting people with a limp handshake and uncomfortable air kisses.

Once she gets to Andy, Nigel looks away. It seems like an invasion of privacy, like he’s looking at something that he shouldn’t, when all Miranda does is direct instructions to her two minions.

This is their night, and he is going to let them have it.

* * *

He likes to think he knows when to meddle and when not to. However, when this—meddling, that is—has his job on the line (he isn’t quite stupid enough to go head to head with Miranda), he is not so sure.

Paris comes too quickly, with bright lights flying past him as he sits in a car worth more than his life with Miranda Priestly by his side. He’s not stupid enough to stick his head into the lion’s mouth, but sometimes, he thinks, it might just be worth the risk. A sharp eye notices the distinct lack of gold on Andy’s hand when the board the plane, but Nigel is also not stupid enough to know not to ask her about it.

Perhaps, some things will come to on their own. (If they haven’t already, that is.)

He’s too busy with the whole Holt International business anyways, to be bothering with what may or may not be happening between Miranda Priestly and her assistant. Nigel is not surprised that she had taken Andy with her on the trip—Emily had broken her leg, and was about as useful as a dead squirrel. However, word had been swirling around that Miranda had planned on it much further, and Nigel would not be surprised. Not in the least.

Perhaps he’s looking into it too much—Miranda Priestly is about as straight as one can get, and last time Nigel checked, Christian Thompson was hot on the tails of Andy. But as he watches Andy carefully reject Christian, puts together outfits that even Miranda could be proud of, and pops the champagne with a mind that’s clearly far away, Nigel knows, even if he doesn’t know.

Nevermind that, though. He’s almost too happy to care, because ever since he met Miranda Priestly in that dingy bar that she would never step foot into today, ever since she dragged him from the depths of Vogue and into the depths of Runway, spiking up numbers to insanity, this is the best thing she’s given him. (She’s given him back his freedom.)

Winter is beginning to crop up, with the falling of snow skimming the grounds of Paris, the marketing of Christmas just on the verge of bursting out. Trees go up, lights joining them, and at this time, Paris truly becomes the city of lights, couples kissing underneath their dim glow.

Nigel taps his glass with Andy’s, her giving him his congratulations. Nigel can tell when something needs to be forced, especially with Andy, because of all people, especially compared to Miranda, Andy is incredibly easy to read.

A part of him wants to weasel it out of her, which he’s sure he can, but the other part, the part that isn’t slightly high on success or just the tiniest bit tipsy, knows to stay out of it. (Nigel sticks to what he knows. It’s safer.)

Eventually, after he’s expressed his ecstasy, Andy shoes him out, and he leaves a glass of champagne—not the best drink to get drunk on, but it works—for her broken heart. Stumbling, just the smallest, he walks back to his hotel room with a warm feeling in his chest that he’s not sure if it’s from his promotion, the alcohol, or something bigger than that. (Something much bigger.)

The snow falls a little harder outside, covering the city in a thick blanket of white, its festive decorations glittering in street lights. Nigel used to think that Christmas was his favourite holiday, the one he loved the most back on Rhode Island where he hadn’t seen an inch of snow, and until now, he has not had the time to appreciate its beauty once more, always walking on. Tonight he celebrates. To himself, and to Andy and Miranda Priestly.

What a pair.

What a pair indeed.

* * *

Nearly bursting with excitement, with the beautiful, beautiful thought of freedom, he nearly skips down the halls to the elevator, but controls himself. (Only a few hours. That’s it, before he’s released from the most glamourous cage in the world.) The bottoms of his shoes tap quietly on the expensive, marble floors, and Nigel feels like the king of the world.

This is what he’s been working for—all that time underneath Miranda Priestly’s lock and key, ever since she collected him from the falling floors of Vogue and into the presumably-sinking-ship of Runway.

Finding Andy sitting at his table, dolled up in a lovely dress (Prada he believes), and scans the room for Miranda. Catching the editor’s eye, he gives her a respectful, “thank you” smile, and sits down with glee when she gives a nod back. Andy fidgets, nearly crumpling her couture dress between her fingers in a death grip. It snows softly outside, Nigel notices, barely unable to keep his joy within in.

Andy gives him a strained smile that he’s quite curious of, but right now, he can’t care. This is Nigel Kipling’s moment, this is his happy ending, handed to him by a beautiful witch in the most expensive clothes.

Barely hearing what speakers are saying before him, he impatiently waits for his turn, nearly jumping out of his chair when Donatella finishes her speech with a soft “thank you very much.”

Walking up to the podium with a confidence he has not found in years, his hands ever so barely shake when he places the piece of paper on the smooth wood, quietly clearing his throat.

“Runway is, and has always been, a beacon of light for those brave enough to hope,” Nigel begins, hoping that the beating of his heart can’t be picked up by the microphone. He remembers a past on an island, where money was something one could only dream of, and a smile shows on his face. He doesn’t wipe it off. Miranda needs to see this. See what all that she’s done for her, because at the end of the day, Nigel Kipling is in love with Miranda Priestly—not romantically (he’s about as gay as one can get), but in the way that everyone is.

He is in love with Miranda Priestly the way the industry is, the reason his loyalty has paid off so well. His eyes catch the falling snow, and his heart grows a little more. He thinks he can be a bit kinder now, and spots Andy’s eye.

Words of admiration, of love, of his story pour out into his introduction, finishing off, “and I present, the best person to guard that beacon, Miranda Priestly.”

Miranda gracefully stands up, giving her fake smile to everyone, and glides her way up to the stage. She gives Nigel her custom air-kisses, and Nigel whispers her “thank you,” looking her directly in the eye before he lets her go. Nigel doesn’t manage to catch her face, but if he had, the curved lips fell just a little, not enough for others to notice, but had Nigel seen it, he would’ve.

Sitting back down with Andy—he still can’t figure out why she’s worried, but he’s sure it’s nothing. Nigel pays no attention to Miranda’s opening, only perking up when the words “and so, it comes as no surprise that James has selected someone from the Runway family to lead James Holt International”, Nigel quickly straightening his suit.

He gives an excited glance at Andy (doesn’t notice that she looks squeamish), hoping that his grin isn’t as wide as he thinks it is.

“My esteemed colleague,” Miranda continues, “Jacqueline Follet.”

Stop.

Time freezes.

_What—_

Time unfreezes.

He feels someone’s hand on his arm, and nearly whips around to find Andy with her jaw dropped, as his hands come together for clapping that he’s not quite sure is real.

Nigel misses Miranda’s next words. He misses everything about Miranda Priestly.

“When the time is right, she will pay me back,” Nigel whispers to Andy. He doesn’t look at her face.

“You sure about that?”

He asks himself that same question.

“No, but I hope for the best.”

Too bad he’s still in love with Miranda Priestly.

The snow falls a little harder.

 

_One year later._

Nigel’s learnt, to leave Miranda Priestly where she is, and he can only admire her from afar. She hasn’t managed to pay him back the way he told Andy she would, or the way he had hoped she would, but Nigel lets go that small hope, lets it drift off into the white covered streets of New York. He’s happy enough at Runway, he’s successful enough, and though he has yet to find a beau, he’s satisfied.

To be beside Miranda Priestly is to want more, to want it all, and that hasn’t worked out for her, and it certainly hasn’t worked out for Nigel. Who spends Christmas Eve at the office? But he leaves a little token to a woman he can’t help but want to be, hanging a small sprig of mistletoe at her front door, leaving the letter he had planned to give to her in person peaking right out from under the mat.

He isn’t quite sure what exactly happened to Andrea Sachs—in fact, he hasn’t thought about her since that day in Paris, but he wonders if she had managed to escape the claws of Miranda Priestly, and he wondered if it was happier, free from her iron clasp.

Maybe this is his meddling he should’ve done, that year ago, but he isn’t sure if it’s going to help, or hinder. He tells himself that he doesn’t care, but he knows that he will always love Miranda Priestly, and that what he wants, at the end of the day, is her happiness.

He wondered if this was worth the risk, and takes a long, lasting look at Miranda’s house.  

Walking into the cold roads, he hails a cab, and sits quietly in his living room, a glass of untouched scotch nesting in his hands.

* * *

Andy quickly steps out of the freezing cold subway, her boots crunching through freshly fallen snow. Nearly running to Miranda’s house, she stops for a second at the doorstep, catching her breath. Her foot scruffs against an envelope, one with neat handwriting that she thinks she recognizes but doesn’t. Picking it up, she rings the doorbell, noticing with a smirk of the mistletoe hanging above her.

Short footsteps come through the door, Miranda opening it as a great smile beams on Andy’s face.

“Didn’t peg you one for tradition,” she says, pointing up at the mistletoe.

“I didn’t put that th—”

Andy shuts her up with a kiss, grabbing the editor by the neck and stumbles her way into the townhouse.

“—ere,” she finishes, straightening her cardigan quickly. Andy kisses her softly on the forehead, and slips the envelope into Miranda’s hand.

“I think _someone_ has a little something for you,” Andy jokes, and at that moment, they both know who it is from. Miranda sets the envelope down, pulling Andy in for another kiss.

Somewhere, sometime in the world, a clock struck twelve, and Andy silently thanks whoever put the mistletoe there—though, with this one too, they both know who it is from.

Because Andrea Sachs is in love with Miranda Priestly as much as Nigel Kipling is, though it might not be in the same way, and Andy knows that this Christmas, he will get his gift.

(An email with a video message is sent to a special someone, and that someone has burst open with joy, the snow falling softly outside.)

“Merry Christmas,” Andy whispers.

“Merry Christmas, Andrea.”

**FIN.**

> _“... the silence of frost-bright nights.” —Anne Lowell_

**Author's Note:**

> Cranked out a little Christmas fic last night, I hope you enjoyed! Merry Christmas to all that celebrate it, and if not, a very happy Tuesday to you. 
> 
> (Sorry for not posting for so long, I hope to get started a longer fic soon!)


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